Imitating Art
by FiveRoses
Summary: Jane and Lisbon having "literary" discussions about various books and disagreeing about Jane's supposed resemblance to the heroes of said books.


_I thought that since we all like to read and write fanfic, it's probable that we all also like to read books. So this is a fluffy, completely random fic revolving around books._

_Spoiler alert__ for the following books: _Thank you, Jeeves_ by PG Wodehouse; _Strong Poison_ by Dorothy L Sayers (and subsequent Peter Wimsey & Harriet Vane books); _The Princess Bride_ by William Goldman; _The Scarlet Pimpernel_ by Baroness Orczy, _Just So Stories_ by Rudyard Kipling and _A Grief Observed_ by CS Lewis. You don't have to have read them to understand this (though it would make it more enjoyable to read), but if you plan to read them, then you might want to hold off reading this, as it definitely contains spoilers. It's been a while since I've read some of these, so I hope my memory hasn't played any tricks on me._

_Disclaimer__: I don't own these characters, nor any of the books mentioned above._

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Jane and Lisbon were sitting in Jane's car waiting for a suspect to fall into one of Jane's traps. Jane's logic as to why they needed to use his car had been that: a) it didn't look like a cop car; and b) its very conspicuousness diverted suspicion. Lisbon had been in an easy-going mood and hadn't bothered to argue with him. Jane loved it when she was being amenable. It was as rare and exciting an occurrence as a passing comet, and he was making the most of it.

They had parked around the corner from the suspect's house, near a small empty park. It was a balmy, peaceful afternoon and the neighbourhood was leafy and pretty. They had the windows open, and breezes danced through the car, ruffling their hair and ghosting gentle touches over their skin. It was turning out to be an unexpectedly pleasant experience.

Jane had brought a book with him and they were taking it in turns to read aloud while the other watched the suspect's house. The book of choice was PG Wodehouse's _Thank You, Jeeves_, and it was producing a great deal of laughter from both of them.

Jane paused thoughtfully at the end of the chapter he was reading.

"Does Jeeves remind you of someone, Lisbon?" he enquired. "All that prodigious intellect and the uncanny ability to always come up with an imaginative and effective plan to save the day."

"You're comparing yourself to a 1920's gentleman's gentleman now?" Lisbon asked, somewhat amused.

"His job is irrelevant. It's his genius that I was thinking of," Jane replied.

"Nothing small about you, is there?" The depths and breadths and heights of Jane's arrogance never ceased to amaze her.

"Well, you're the one who immediately made the connection to me," Jane pointed out.

"Not because _I_ think you're like Jeeves, but because you were clearly comparing yourself to him. I trust you're not going to carry your analogy any further."

Jane gave a rather gleeful grin.

"I thought you liked Bertie Wooster?" he said, raising his eyebrows with mock surprise.

"He's an amusing character, but no-one in their right mind would want to be compared with him. Not that I bear any striking resemblance to him that I can see."

"I'm sure I could find some similarities if I took the trouble to think about it," Jane said, already applying his mind to the problem.

"I'd much rather you just keep reading the book," Lisbon told him. "Provided you haven't now ruined the idyll by inserting yourself into the picture."

"I'm hurt, Lisbon, that you would consider my presence a detriment. I would have thought that a character like myself would be a dazzling adornment to any story," Jane said, adding, "You haven't been frequently engaged, by any chance?" His comparative analysis of Lisbon and Bertie Wooster was proving to be something of a lost cause.

Lisbon grabbed the book from him.

"I'll read; you watch the house," she said firmly, then added, "And no, I don't make it a habit to get engaged, nor am I independently wealthy, nor have I ever attempted to play the banjolele."

"Hmm, another instrument ruled out," Jane said, half to himself. "Quite the mystery, that."

" 'I must say, as a general rule,' " she read, " 'I always bar stories where the chap who's telling them skips lightly from point to point and leaves you to work it out for yourself as best you can just what happened in the interim. I mean to say, the sort of story where Chapter Ten ends with the hero trapped in the underground den and Chapter Eleven starts with him being the life and soul of a gay party at the Spanish Embassy. And, strictly speaking, I suppose, I ought at this juncture to describe step by step the various moves which led me to safety and freedom, if you see what I mean.

" 'But when a tactician like Jeeves is in charge of the arrangements, it all seems so unnecessary. Simply a waste of time. If Jeeves sets out to shift a fellow from Spot A to Spot B, from a state-room on a yacht, for instance, to the shore in front of his cottage, he just does it. No hitches. No difficulties. No fuss. No excitement. Absolutely nothing to report.' "

Lisbon stopped reading and looked at Jane quizzically.

"Okay, I know what you're going to say," Jane said.

"How clairvoyant of you." She was giving him her most amused crooked grin.

Jane tried to keep his attention on the house he was supposed to be watching, but was having trouble resisting the need to put all his energy into defending himself, which would necessitate focusing his attention on Lisbon, looking eloquently into her eyes and giving her the full benefit of his charm and sincerity. He knew that, from frequent exposure and long experience, she was largely impervious to this tactic, but he was ever the optimist.

"See, where Jeeves and I differ is that I am a showman," Jane explained, "When I do something, I do it with flair. Granted that sometimes makes the outcome a little less clinically tidy, but it's always entertaining and gets the job done."

"Hitches, difficulties, fuss, excitement, plenty to report – particularly given that bureaucracy is involved," Lisbon summed up drily.

"We haven't had any fuss or excitement with my current plan," Jane said, a little defensively.

"That's because nothing's happened yet," Lisbon replied. "I'm sure all the hitches and difficulties are just waiting in the wings for when the action starts."

"Oh, ye of little faith. Why such a pessimist, Lisbon?"

"Possibly because I've known you for longer than about five minutes. My life seems to revolve around your untidy – but entertaining – plans."

"Well, I do try. Think how dull your life would be without me."

"Oh, believe me, it's one of my favourite fantasies. I write heartfelt poetry about the unattainable joys of a dull life."

"Classic case of wanting something just because you don't have it. If you were to actually get it, you wouldn't like it at all."

"Are you saying that I'm contrary?"

"Well, yes, to be perfectly honest, you can be very contrary at times."

This time it was Lisbon who turned to look at Jane in order to give him the full benefit of her glare. Even though he was still watching the house, he caught enough of the heat of her gaze out of the corner of his eye to scorch him ever so slightly.

Fortunately for him, the suspect came out of his house at that moment and headed to his car. Rather less fortunately for him, when he hurriedly tried to start his own car, it gave a sad little splutter, then a rather hollow little cough, and then appeared to just lie down and die quietly.

Lisbon pulled out her trusty phone to tell Rigsby and Cho, who were staking out the back of the house, that they needed to follow the suspect instead. Once that was taken care of, she turned and looked at Jane.

"Oh, Jeeves, you've done it again," she said, delighted mischief lighting up her face.

"Total coincidence," Jane said as he dialled the well-used number of his car mechanic. He did, however, give her a slightly rueful smile as he said it.

On the plus side, it seemed that he had made Lisbon's day, so it wasn't all bad...

0000000

Lisbon had successfully negotiated the city traffic, and had now relaxed into her long-distance driving mode. Their destination was about three hours away, so Jane had brought a book to while away the time. Since he liked heroes who reminded him of himself, he had chosen Dorothy L Sayers' _Strong Poison_. He planned on pointing out to Lisbon the similarities between Lord Peter Wimsey and himself, just as soon as Wimsey cleverly solved the case. In the meantime, he drank plenty of water and paced himself.

"Another contrary woman," he editorialised at one point in the story. "We all know she's going to marry him eventually, so why doesn't she just say 'yes'?"

Lisbon gave him a scandalised look.

"Just because he proved that she's innocent, doesn't mean she has to repay him by marrying him!"

"Don't be so cynical, Lisbon. He's not asking as a form of repayment, he's asking because he loves her," Jane protested.

"Oh, please, he asked her to marry him the first time they met! How can he possibly know if he loves her or not?"

"I take it you don't believe in love at first sight, then? Which is surprising, since I know you love _Sleepless In Seattle_."

"I'm not saying that I don't believe in love at first sight (though I'm also not saying that I do); I'm saying that he should have had more sense than to ask her to marry him under those circumstances. Of course she's going to say 'no'. Any self-respecting woman would."

"Why? You don't think she loves him back?"

"Even if she did – and considering that she just met him, that's unlikely – she's still going to feel that the whole thing smacks of an obligation being repaid. Harriet Vane is a woman who likes to know the ground rules when she makes a decision. And in this instance, she's not sure why he wants to marry her, nor does she feel that her motives would be pure if she married him."

"So you think that repaying someone for saving your life by marrying them is not a pure motive for marriage then?"

"Do you?"

"That depends on what both parties want to get out of the marriage, I suppose. I'm actually a little disappointed at your stance on the matter. Does this mean that if I said that I wanted to marry you, you wouldn't find the fact that I saved your life a convincing argument to do so."

"Since I'm well ahead of you in life-saving credit – I've lost count of how many times you'd have to save my life in order to even us up – that wouldn't be your best argument."

"Well, that's even more disappointing. Does this mean that you're not going to make me feel obliged to marry you because of all the times you've saved my life? Bearing in mind that I'm with Wimsey on this – I think Harriet Vane should just say 'yes', and not be a difficult woman about it."

Lisbon threw Jane an exasperated look.

"Just read the book, Jane. You claim to be a master of human nature, so I'm sure you can see perfectly well why Harriet Vane is too proud to marry a man just because he rescued her. She's the kind of person who would consider that a reason to turn him down, not the other way around. You just started this conversation to annoy me!"

Jane grinned.

"Well, mission accomplished. But while we're on the subject of what is owed to someone who has saved your life..."

"Jane!" Lisbon spoke in a warning voice.

"What? We've already established that you're way ahead in the life-saving stakes, so this line of thought is entirely to your advantage."

"On the contrary, there's an old belief that when you save someone's life you become responsible for them. I certainly feel like that's true."

"Except that since we've both saved each other's lives, we sort of cancel that one out. So no need to panic, Lisbon, you are absolved of responsibility for my life. Unless you decide we should marry, of course. That would put you back at square one."

Lisbon gave an exasperated sigh.

"Well, you'll be pleased to know that I have no intention of obliging you to marry me, Jane. Could we please move on?"

Jane reopened the book.

"As you wish, Lisbon."

0000000

"What are we reading today?" Lisbon looked inquisitively over at Jane.

He held up the book triumphantly. _The Princess Bride_, by William Goldman.

"I decided we needed a book about true love, to cleanse the pallet," he explained. "After Bertie Wooster's complete inability to follow through on an engagement and Harriet Vane's refusal to co-operate, I thought we needed a story where true love prevails even over death."

"I found the other Harriet Vane books," Lisbon said, a little diffidently, "and you're right, she did eventually marry him. After five years and hundreds of proposals."

"Well, if at first you don't succeed, try, try and try again, as they say. There's a lot to be said for persistence, especially in the realms of love."

A few pages into the book, Jane couldn't resist a comment.

"This bossy woman really reminds me of someone," he said in a thoughtful tone.

"Shut up and just read the book, will you?"

"As you wish, Lisbon."

A couple of pages later, Lisbon caught the significance of the phrase.

"Are you yanking my chain with your 'as you wishes', Jane?" she said, surprised at how irritated she was.

" 'As you wish' is a perfectly innocent phrase, Lisbon. No need to be so skittish."

"When you're reading a book where 'as you wish' stands for 'I love you', it's best to avoid the phrase in normal conversation for a while."

"Whatever you say, Lisbon."

She glared at him.

"Stop messing with me, Jane."

"I'm agreeing to do what you asked! What words am I allowed to use?"

" 'Okay' would work."

"Okay," Jane said, like she'd made him say a bad word, "But I am registering my protest for the record."

"Duly noted."

Jane carried on reading.

"He's dead already!" Lisbon said shortly thereafter. "Well, that was the world's shortest romance. Why are we reading this again?"

"Patience, Lisbon. True love has to be tested, or there would be no story."

He read a few more pages.

"Well, I guess she failed the test then. Unless the prince is her actual true love, and the farm boy was just a practice run."

Jane glared at Lisbon over the top of the book.

"Honestly, Lisbon, don't you have a romantic bone in your body? True love doesn't have 'practice runs'! She's just marrying the prince because she's too depressed to care what happens to her now that her true love is dead. But we're still at the beginning of the story, so you really need to give it a chance. Stop interrupting."

"Does she end up with Westley or not? And don't tell me to wait and see. That's a lot of book to wade through if it's not going to end well."

"It depends."

"What depends?"

"On which ending you choose."

"Jane, what are you talking about now?"

"This book offers more than one alternative ending. You can choose the one you like best."

Lisbon stared at him in amazement.

"You're telling me that the author couldn't be bothered to choose an ending and leaves it up to his readers to pick one out of a line-up?! Why are you reading this to me?"

"Because it makes you laugh, and it's full of amusing adventures and great characters. And it's about true love. You need to read more books about true love, Lisbon. You're far too jaded for someone so pretty."

Lisbon blinked a couple of times and decided that a reading Jane was probably less problematic in the long run than a talking Jane.

"Carry on reading then, Jane. But please pick the right ending and only read that one to me. I have enough responsibilities in my life without having to decide how the books I read end."

"As you wi... I mean, okay," Jane said.

0000000

"How do you feel about the French Revolution, Lisbon?"

Lisbon looked slightly taken aback.

"Rather too much carnage for my taste," she said, a little confused.

"Oh, good, then you'll like this book," Jane held it up. "_The Scarlet Pimpernel_, by Baroness Orczy. You haven't read it, have you?"

Lisbon shook her head. Jane looked pleased.

"You're in for a treat, Lisbon," he said cheerfully, settling down opposite her in her office.

Lisbon looked even more bemused.

"You can't read it to me _now_, Jane. I'm working."

"Don't we have somewhere we need to drive to?" Jane asked hopefully.

Lisbon shook her head.

"A nice dull stakeout, perhaps?"

"Go and sleep on your couch, Jane," Lisbon said amused, "I'll let you know when something comes up."

Just then Lisbon's phone rang, and Jane perked up with renewed hope. He was very bored indeed and really needed a diversion.

Lisbon's side of the conversation was most uninformative, but she soon hung up and looked at Jane with slightly narrowed eyes.

"I feel as though you orchestrated this somehow, although it doesn't seem possible," she said to him.

He grinned broadly.

"We have a case somewhere in the back of beyond, don't we?"

She nodded, still looking at him like he was somehow responsible.

"Let's get the team and be on our way then," Jane said, heading out the door.

Once in the car, Jane pulled his book out again. The team, upon hearing that Jane was planning on reading aloud the whole trip, had all absconded to the other car. Jane didn't mind. He had his target audience trapped safely behind the steering wheel and he knew they would be able to have a far more entertaining conversation if they were alone together.

The book was one of those that meanders for quite some time before finally introducing the main characters. By the time it does, dozens of other characters have already been introduced, and it takes a perceptive reader to recognise that these new characters are the ones to pay attention to. Judging by subtle changes in Lisbon's body language as she listened, it seemed that she was one such reader. Either that, or Jane had somehow given it away, and she was accurately reading him rather than the book. Whichever it was, Jane was impressed. He'd always thought that Lisbon was more perceptive than she gave herself credit for.

When she suddenly said, far earlier in the story than seemed reasonable, "Her husband is the Scarlet Pimpernel, isn't he?", Jane was definitely impressed.

"Do you think it's possible to be married to someone and to so totally misread their personality?" she said, a little sceptical.

"Yes," Jane said, with a brevity that surprised Lisbon. She glanced at him, concerned. Jane thought he'd better elaborate.

"If he goes out of his way to project a certain image, not just to her but to everyone else too, and they are already somewhat estranged for other reasons, there is no reason why he wouldn't be able to hide his true personality from her. They've only been married for a year, and have been estranged essentially from the day after their wedding. It doesn't give her much to work with."

Lisbon gave Jane a look of sudden revelation.

"This isn't a book about the French Revolution; this is a love story!" she exclaimed. "I'm starting to see a theme in the books you're reading me, Jane."

Jane grinned impishly.

"Since you so resolutely refuse to indulge in any romance in your own life, Lisbon, I thought you should at the very least read about it in other people's lives."

"With the theme being that the course of true love never does run smooth?"

"With the theme being that although the odds are stacked against true love, it's worth fighting for."

"You are such a romantic at heart, Jane. Who would have thought?"

"Shall I continue?"

"A story about a man who pretends to be something he isn't so that people will underestimate him and allow him to be heroic in secrecy and anonymity. Is that how you see yourself? Quietly battling the forces of evil, while pretending to be idle, frivolous and disenchanted?"

Jane was a little startled by the question and distinctly put out at her characterisation of him.

"No. Why would you think that?"

"You saw yourself as Jeeves and as Peter Wimsey, and probably as Westley too, although you didn't actually say as much. Identifying with the hero is a bit of a hobby of yours, it would seem."

"Well, I do identify with being misunderstood by the heroine!" Jane retorted.

"Carry on reading, Jane," Lisbon said with a grin.

0000000

"Let me guess, _Wuthering Heights_? No, wait, not a Bronte... something by Jane Austen?"

"Nope, not even close. And you've already read all of those, anyway," Jane said. "Today we're reading _Just So Stories_, by Rudyard Kipling."

Lisbon gave a big grin.

"Making a point, by any chance?"

"No love story and no hero for me to be accused of identifying with," Jane said.

"Well, I don't know about that. You remind me rather vividly of the elephant's child, with his insatiable curiosity and his tendency to ask questions that got him spanked on a regular basis. Or you could easily be the camel that refused to do anything that even remotely resembled work. Or..."

Jane snapped the book shut again.

"You know what, Lisbon, maybe we shouldn't read anything today."

0000000

A few days later, Jane found a little parcel on his couch when he arrived at work. Inside was a book by CS Lewis called _A Grief Observed_. Attached was a note from Lisbon:

'I know you don't believe in God as the author of this book does, but this is the journal he wrote in the months after his wife's death, and anyone who has lost someone can identify with what he goes through. Sometimes it helps to know that you are not alone; to identify with someone else in their pain and their heroism.'

Jane stood very still, staring at the book like he didn't quite understand what it was. Then he gave a soft, private little smile, sat down on the couch and began to read.

THE END


End file.
